A Ghost Story || Terry Severhill

And then there’s Tom who liked to boast “I think I’m a ghost…”
Next week we will lift a drink and toast to Tom
Who disappeared a year and a week ago.
You say it’s a sin to eat anything without a fin on Fridays.
How can I say yes or no? To things that can’t be known?
Tom went on a spiritual diet, thin as a rail; it’s been known to fail. No matter
how many times he chanted about Hail this and Forgive me that, his spirit and
soul began to flail.

Our father is not your father, so piss be on you.
Waifs lead us not to temptation, wafer thin and hot.
Being punished with metal-edged rulers, a Catholic type of nun chucks.
On the offering basket someone had written a note:
“The buck stops here.” Most of those who prayed also paid,
Paying no attention to the words spoken. The money was merely a token like
the ones for a subway or bus ride to Hell.

Tom may have been right to walk or run away into the night.
Enlightenment may be akin to the light at the end of the tunnel
Or the light given off by a fuse too near its end.
This land is my land, that land is your land,
Forever and ever, let the fights begin,
And begin without ending, what’s the point?
When two or more are gathered in my name:
Sounds like a conspiracy worthy of an investigation.
Faith and facts, which is the negation?

This was originally published in Fall 2017 edition of The Helix.

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